take long. And it should be relatively painless.’
He nodded, his mouth white around the edges. ‘Pain isn’t the issue, Pippen.’
She stopped unwrapping the linen bandage that covered his lower right leg. ‘Then what is?’
‘Nothing.’ He turned away.
Dev gritted his teeth to keep from telling Pippen all his fears. The boy had no idea what it was like for a man to look into his future and see himself as an invalid. He was used to being active and doing what he pleased when it pleased him. Much as he might tell himself differently, he knew his wounds would make a difference. The knowledge was like a sore that ate at his peace of mind.
‘Dev?’
Pippen’s enquiry pulled Dev from his melancholy thoughts. There was no reason to burden the lad with his problems. Pippen was doing more than necessary for many British soldiers here in Brussels. He was just another one of the youth’s patients—or would be if he hadn’t ousted Pippen from his bed.
Dev released the breath he’d unknowingly held. ‘Never mind, Pip, just unwrap the blasted thing so I can see just how ugly it is.’
Pippen’s too green eyes darkened in something suspiciously like pity. ‘It will be like any other wound that’s healing, but not completely well.’
It was an effort not to snap at the boy. With carefully measured tones, Dev said, ‘I don’t need your pity, lad. Your skill as a sawbones has been more than sufficient.’
Pippen nodded, refraining from a response.
Under the bright afternoon light of a hot Brussels afternoon, Dev’s leg was slowly revealed. In much less time than Dev had thought possible, his limb lay stretched out on the sheets. Vivid red lines slashed across his flesh, interspersed with splotched welts where the skin was healing after being burnt.
‘Not a pretty sight,’ Dev said softly.
‘No worse than many others I’ve seen. You are fortunate that it has healed cleanly and you still have your leg.’
Pippen’s gentle words did nothing to assuage the bitterness knifing through Dev’s gut. Exhaustion smashed into him, and he fell back on the pillows, one arm flung across his eyes. The last thing he wanted to see right now was his deformity.
‘The swelling is almost gone.’
Dev nodded.
‘I think it looks fine,’ Pippen stated.
Dev ignored Pippen’s attempts to gloss over the wound. He didn’t want to talk about his leg. Maybe in a couple days, after he got used to the looks—like he’d got used to the pain and then later the constant ache—he would be interested in talking to Pippen about what the scars would look like after the redness went away. Maybe. Not now.
He said nothing while Pippen bathed the leg.
‘I think we can stop wrapping it,’ Pippen said, his tone thoughtful. ‘The fresh air will be good for it.’
Dev grimaced. Without the bandage he would be able to see the carnage that was his leg. When it was wrapped, he could fool himself that it would return to normal. Even with the discomfort, he had been able to tell himself the leg would be fine when it healed. But seeing it, with the scars and puckered flesh, would be a constant reminder that it would never be normal again.
He stared at the dingy wall, wishing Pippen would go away.
‘Dev?’
‘Go away, Pippen. Go see if you can get a message to Wellington. See if anyone knows what happened to Captain Patrick Shaunessey.’ He managed to keep from saying, Go away and let me wallow in my self-pity.
For long moments, the lad said nothing and Dev could feel his gaze. ‘As you wish, Dev. I shall tell the landlady to bring you something to eat. Stew, if you like, and a big chunk of fresh bread.’
Dev forced himself to smile and meet Pippen’s eyes. ‘That would be more than welcome. Now, please go.’
He heard, rather than saw, the door close. With a grunt of pain, he pulled himself up in bed. His leg lay spread out, immobile and stiff. He looked his fill, willing himself to accept the disfigurement. He bent at the waist and carefully ran one finger along the line of the worst scar. The welt twisted and buckled, the angry red trail ending just above his knee. He barely felt his touch.
Growing braver, he ran his palm along the damaged skin, noting the roughness. Little pricks of pain darted along the length of his leg. At least he could feel something. That had to be good.
Exhaustion ate at him. This was more movement than he had done since regaining consciousness. Yet he gritted his teeth and continued to study his leg.
He had always been active. The army had been the ideal place for him. As the youngest son, many had expected him to join the clergy, but he was too energetic. Knowing he would never be happy in so sedate a position, his father had bought him a commission. Dev had never regretted that decision. Not even now.
He could have crippled himself riding to hounds or in a coaching accident. At least he had gained his wounds by fighting for his country, by protecting something he felt strongly about, by defending England.
Determination clenched his fists and tightened his shoulder muscles. He would heal. He would do everything he always had. He would ride a horse. He would dance the night away. He would bed a woman.
So help him, he would not waste away into the life of a cripple. He would not.
Chapter Three
Deverell’s previous landlord shrugged his ample shoulders, that perennially Gallic motion expressive of great regret. ‘I am sorry for it, but Monsieur St Simon never returned from the battle. I am a businessman. I rented his rooms.’
Pippa felt like crumbling. This was the second piece of bad news today. Just minutes before, she had been denied access to Lord Wellington and anyone else who could have answered Deverell’s questions. The setback would not please Dev.
Now she was being told that Deverell would have to stay in her small, cramped room. He would continue to disturb her in ways she was unaccustomed to. Desperation gnawed at her. ‘Do you have any other rooms available?’
‘Non. The English are coming like the droves of sheep they raise.’ A grin split his thick, wide lips. ‘Very profitable, to be sure.’
Pippa nodded. She had spent all morning preparing herself to move Dev. She had told herself it was for the best. Being the son of the wealthiest duke in Britain, he could easily pay someone to watch him around the clock. She didn’t have to be that person. She had squared her shoulders and girded her loins, so to speak. And now this.
She felt an inexplicable mixture of emotions. Regret, apprehension…elation. As much as she had known closer proximity to Deverell would not be good for her peace of mind, she found herself glad that he would have to stay with her. At least, for a while longer. This way she would know he got expert care, and she wouldn’t have to worry about someone harming his leg, which was not entirely healed. Why, he couldn’t even use a cane yet, so could not walk.
They were paltry excuses for the real reason she was glad, but she refused to acknowledge any other.
‘Well,’ she said briskly, ‘do you still have his things?’
The portly landlord drew himself to his full height, which was several inches shorter than Pippa. ‘But of course. When I let his rooms, I had all his belongings packed away in case someone came to claim them. I have, also, a note. Sent from London,’ he finished, a sly, curious gleam in his dark eyes.
‘From his family, no doubt,’ Pippa said. ‘I would like his possessions, please.’
It was a short matter of time before Pippa’s errand was completed, and she was back in her room. With Dev’s possessions, her meagre space was more cramped than ever. Having been raised